


The Living Dead

by levitatethis



Series: The Underground Resistance [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the first attempt to take down The Company failed those left standing went underground to organize the Second Wave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Living Dead

_“When the uncertain future becomes the past, the past in turn becomes uncertain.”   
_**-Mohsin Hamid, Moth Smoke**

Mohinder Suresh has been dead for three years.

Ruled accidental; his funeral was modestly attended in New York. In India there was a much larger turnout to pay respects to his cremated remains.

Devastated, his mother suffered a heartbreak she never fully recovered from for a son she had loved more than life itself yet whom she had not seen in four years. She ignored the low rumblings that Mohinder had brought it upon himself with the suspicious work he was involved in; she mourned her second born.

Perseverance as strength she became one of the most outspoken voices regarding the genetic research of Specials, a dangerous plight she shouldered with honour for her late husband and son.

Their mantle has become hers and each day she feels Mohinder, in whatever form his energy has taken, smiling on her.

Mohinder is gone.

Julian Raseena is very much alive.

He bares a striking resemblance to the late geneticist. In fact, to someone who may have known Mohinder first, they might be thought of as twins. As is the case, however, only one of them currently exists in the world.

Living a relatively simple life on the surface, Julian works as an editor for a small publishing company in Barcelona. Cubicle work mostly it is a job he can take home if any unforeseen situation arises; a necessity as well as a perk.

Simple, straightforward and conducive to his continued, secretive, research, Julian has accepted with great sacrifice a very specific life.

He has a handful of friends in Barcelona who provide a sense of normalcy to his daily routine. There is no telltale sign of anything peculiar beyond his passing interest in an activist by the name of Suresh but they all have their amusing personal obsessions with various public figures, mostly actors or singers, that his does not raise any flags.

Besides his Spanish friends Julian keeps in sporadic touch with a few others. Those few pop up randomly, sometimes with only a cryptic phone call or email beforehand. On those rare occasions when his time is spent with such a surprise guest it is brief, yet each minute carries with it the weight of a delicate future.

When the figurative hurricane struck, three years before, it had scattered them far and wide into assumed lives that innocently masked the formation of the Second Wave of the Resistance.

The few members of the old guard still running The Company, Angela Petrelli amongst the notable names, basked in their seeming victory at squashing the first attempt of the Resistance to bring them down.

Learning from mistakes, the Second Wave was conceived, and is still carried out, as an underground organization.

Julian is one of many born of that time.

Ronan O’Rourke came into existence a few months afterwards.

It was easy for him to escape the chains of Peter Petrelli. Drawing on the ability of illusion, from only the second illusionist The Company had ever known, Ronan was a study in opposites: tall not short, stocky instead of thin, abrasive rather than soft spoken.

A pub manager in Dublin, he makes frequent business trips that act as a magician’s curtain dividing what he chooses to show the world and what he is preparing to one day unleash in an act of vengeance for all of those who have been wronged.

A severe burn alongside the left half of her face, a disfigured medal of honour, is the only potential giveaway that Daria Fellers was ever Elle Bishop. Cocooning herself in the guise forced upon her she acts the role of a Vancouver librarian.

Matt Parkman and Molly Walker morphed into single father and corporate limo driver David Horitz and his daughter Laynie in Toronto. Playing the part of a family trying to make ends meet the only attention the Horitz’s draw in is of sympathetic neighbours who feed them under the pretense of accidentally making too much food.

Noah Bennet’s death created Frank Thomas a seedy motel manager in Hamburg. Claire Bennet’s demise brought into being Maggie Reese a Tokyo based personal assistant.

Hiro Nakamura’s disappearance was just that. He vanished, although sightings turned him into a sort of mythical creature for those on the opposing side.

Ando became tour guide operator Daniel Lim in Bangkok. The loss of Micah in the first attack hardened Monica Dawson into Gina Williams, a freelance photojournalist residing in Nice. Maya Herrera morphed into Zara Seth, a preschool teacher in Cape Town.

The dead outnumber the living. Under a vow of silence the continued battle plans of those still standing come together underneath the false personas they are careful never to expose.

A relatively straightforward language put together by Ando allows them to speak to each other in a shared dialect. Messages are rare but significant and followed through in a timely fashion.

Personal meetings only result from intricately drawn out itineraries, at least on behalf of the person doing the traveling. More often than not the one being visited is unaware of such plans until he or she is in the middle of them. It is a way of insuring that no one person can point the finger at anyone else under torturous duress.

There are nearly one hundred underground members besides the original founders of the Resistance. Time is a precious commodity, but beyond their training there still exists far too many unanswered questions about The Company and the secretive order at its heart. Constantly managing to keep up its pace of being two steps ahead, The Company thrives on remaining elusive.

As the Resistance builds up they look for missteps, pray for them; hope for them. Their sacrifices cannot have been for nothing.

They are the living dead now.

Buried pasts have made the present possible and the future rewritable.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

A newly arrived manuscript about birds sits on Julian’s desk to greet Mohinder when he arrives for work. The first indication that it is more than another editing job is that it appears to have been hand delivered, with an envelope attached to the top left corner of the first page.

Gently tugging the envelope free from the grip of the staple, Mohinder opens it, pulling out the folded letter and carefully reads the type words.

_Julian, _

_Re: Glossary of Birds _

_Hummingbirds are limited to the Americas. I prefer the Golden Oriole I saw on my travels through Circeo. I’ve taken it upon myself to collect as much information on this captivating creature, as well as nineteen others. _

_No need for me to ramble, as the day is long. _

_Ronan   
_  
Mohinder rereads the message a few times. It is different than what Peter normally sends him in this situation; this seems more coherent. He folds the letter up and places it in his back pocket.

He now has dinner plans tonight.

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

It is not the familiar face he is expecting.

Walking through the crowded Italian restaurant towards the same corner table he had eaten at with Peter the last time they saw each other, Mohinder’s feet nearly come to an abrupt stop when his eyes fall on a different, yet altogether familiar face reading the menu.

His suddenly pounding heart gives him away.

Sylar looks up and smiles amusingly at his discomfort. Laying down the menu Sylar stands up to greet Mohinder, hand out for a formal greeting.

“Julian, so nice to see you,” Sylar says drawing a slight smirk from the fake name tripping off his tongue.

The few steps it takes for Mohinder to breach the distance take an inordinate amount of effort, as if his feet are encased in concrete. His surprised eyes, wide in barely disguised panic, never leave Sylar’s and he ignores the extended hand.

Unconcerned, Sylar removes the formality from this approach and says, albeit more quietly, “Please take a seat.”

Knowing he cannot risk blowing his cover, Mohinder pulls out the free chair and sits down. Sylar gives a nod to the waiter approaching with his water and appetizer.

“He’ll have a mango juice,” Sylar orders for Mohinder in Spanish while his own drink and first course are placed on the table.

Sylar takes his seat and with a blasé demeanor looks at Mohinder says, “I took the liberty of ordering mozzarella sticks to start. I remember how much you enjoyed these in Wyoming, Mohinder.”

Mohinder’s speechlessness almost drops at the sound of his old name. His quirked eyebrow is met with a vaguely apologetic look.

“It suits you much better. Rolls off the tongue,” shares Sylar.

No more is said while they let their eyes do the work of taking each other in after three long years.

Sylar takes pleasure in comparing the present day Mohinder sitting across from him with the one he had committed to memory. Still as handsome, the tumultuous years have given Mohinder a wizened and tired look. The beginnings of subtle lines crinkle by his eyes and along his forehead. Otherwise his skin is smooth, professional for his job. The one nearly unruly thing is his hair; a mess of curls resting along the middle of his neck.

Sylar cannot help but notice the subdued wardrobe. No longer wearing the bright colours that shone in contrast with his skin, Mohinder now wears a beige linen suit with a crisp white shirt. He is still striking to Sylar, all the more because he does not realize it or does not care, but it is now in a fleeting passage of time kind of way.

For his part Mohinder is an incoherent mess of feelings, so unprepared to be in Sylar’s unexpected presence again. Under Sylar’s scrutinizing gaze an indescribable nervousness overwhelms Mohinder and he finds he is only able to take Sylar in through quick flittering glances.

In bits and pieces he notes Sylar’s short messy hair and his few days of stubble that mark his face, consciously playing up the roguish look he first set about cultivating years before in direct contrast to his previous life as a watchmaker; all the more enhanced by his dark intense eyes.

A black button down shirt, undone at the collar, over top faded blue jeans makes Mohinder think of a slightly cooler version of Zane. The thought does not help to calm Mohinder’s nerves.

Questions run over each other in Mohinder’s mind but he knows he needs to try and remain unshaken if he plans to survive dinner and possibly get any answers that can be passed over to the Resistance.

Upon working up the nerve to break the silence, particularly since Sylar’s look of arrogance tells Mohinder that he won’t be making this easy, despite manipulating the set up, Mohinder’s first attempt to kick start the conversation is interrupted by the arrival of his juice. He nods thanks and tightly takes a hold of the glass; taking a slow drawn out sip, he barely drinks.

Sylar lets out a scoffing laugh before turning his attention to the waiter and ordering two personal pizzas for dinner; a barbeque chicken and vegetable one for him and a Mediterranean one for Mohinder.

When the waiter walks away Sylar again rests his eyes on Mohinder and reaches for his water. He still refuses to initiate the discussion he knows Mohinder is desperately going over in his head. Taking a sip he puts the glass down, leans back in his chair and patiently waits.

The voice in Mohinder’s mind speaks in a quiet hushed tone. It is demandingly curious; the wonder that inhabits it comes from deep within. It is not only Sylar’s existence that forces Mohinder’s mind into dark corners he would mostly prefer to ignore, despite his innate desire to know the unknowable, but Sylar seeking him out that still trips him up as much now as ever before.

He fixes his eyes to Sylar’s and put his juice down. His quiet inner voice comes out much more forceful than intended.

“How did you find me?”

“I have my ways,” Sylar replies slyly. “But we know that’s not the question you should be asking.”

Mohinder swallows nervously and thinks about this game he always ends up playing with Sylar. He hates being caught off guard and at this time in his life, in the middle of such a series of vigilantly planned out steps, he despises the curve ball being tossed at him with such disregard for the situation.

“_Why _did you find me?” Mohinder regretfully tosses his hat in the ring.

_Exactly_, Sylar thinks.

“Let’s not rush into it,” Sylar suggests in an authoritative voice as he picks up a mozzarella stick. “We have all night.”

When Sylar casually begins munching away, Mohinder’s frustration bursts forward.

“No, I want to talk about it now,” Mohinder insists.

“I said we have all--,”

“This is over,” Mohinder states, starting to stand up.

“Sit down!” Sylar demands with such force it draws a few questioning stares from other tables.

While Mohinder, noticeably startled, sits back in his chair Sylar is tempted to tell him to show some gratitude. However he knows Mohinder will not understand what he is referring to. It is something that breathes down the back of Sylar’s neck based on a decision he made years before. Tonight it would only raise more questions and not the ones Sylar is prepared to answer. He sees Mohinder’s eyes grow angrier.

“You’re such a --” Mohinder begins before changing his mind. “Where do you get off demanding anything of me when you’re the one who up and left while we were being beat back? So much for all your powers. You were a coward—and a selfish one at that. Promising to help but then--,”

“I promised nothing,” Sylar interjects. “I made no declarations and no pledges so don’t act like I betrayed--,”

“You stood with us when it suited your purpose,” Mohinder speaks out over Sylar’s words.

“You needed the numbers on your side so don’t act like you were above selfish reasoning,” Sylar counterattacks.

Tension rises between them as they both remember the fiasco of the end. The living nightmare it devolved into revealed the weaknesses of impromptu planning, a sharp contrast to the methodical counter attack of The Company.

It had been much harder than Mohinder was ever prepared for. He had almost died a handful of times. The last time he had wished he had, if only to end the terrifying reality. In the midst of all the fighting before that he had felt Sylar’s watchful presence, trying to control him, trying to protect him – for Sylar’s own survival, Mohinder told himself. After all, he would have been the only one able to help a hurt Sylar. That was the straightforward justification Mohinder had repeated to himself, used to convince himself.

His voice now more reflective instead of attacking, Mohinder says, “Even when you knew we were going to lose you could have stayed—_should_ have stood your ground. The rest of us—Noah, Maya, Matt, so many others—were willing to die for the cause.”

“The noble sacrifice,” Sylar mutters.

“You ran away not caring about those you left behind for dead--,”

“Why should I care about those who would have tried to kill me if not for the situation--,”

“I was left for dead!” Mohinder declares not knowing why he still cares that Sylar never did.

It is simply another addition to the long list of situations and behaviours that Mohinder feels he has misread or misunderstood throughout the years. He has to remind himself that normal emotions and thoughts cannot be applied to the killer and that assigning ones own beliefs and wants only results in more confusion.

“If Peter had not found me…” Mohinder’s voice drifts off.

Sylar bristles at the accolade being bestowed upon someone he not only dislikes immensely but who deserves no thanks from Mohinder for his life. How easily a lie becomes fact Sylar thinks. He feels no need to make apologies for his disappearing act but he is sorely tempted to set the record straight about Mohinder’s life being saved. Sylar fumes inwardly. At the very least, Mohinder should feel indebted to the right person, he thinks.

“Peter is a--,” Sylar begins.

“Fighter. My friend. Which is a lot more than I can say for you,” Mohinder interrupts.

“I was actually thinking lying opportunist,” Sylar continues but he carefully goes no further. To do so would be to open up a Pandora’s Box of questions that Mohinder already thinks are answered.

It was easier to let Mohinder hate him.

Sylar wonders how he would even begin to unravel the twisted lie that, through ignorance, transformed into fact. To the extent that Sylar had put himself first, Mohinder was correct. After a temporarily satiated taste of revenge against those who had purposely infected him, he had seen the undeniable defeat on the horizon of the Resistance. But he had not disappeared entirely. Instead he had watched from afar, building up his own arsenal of powers at the same time.

Mohinder would never believe that it was Sylar who had found him unconscious in the lab and carried him out, or that Sylar would have taken him far away from the battle to ensure his safety had Peter not turned up. To avoid a booming confrontation with the empath about going AWOL, Sylar had left Mohinder across the street, lying along the sidewalk, before retreating into the shadows to let Peter find the geneticist.

The building that housed the lab had imploded thirty seconds later, just enough time for Peter to fly Mohinder away.

Observations that followed in later days revealed the warped logic. Peter had thought that Mohinder had dragged himself out of the building before losing consciousness while Mohinder remembered nothing but Peter getting him to safety. In any case Peter was hailed a hero for getting Mohinder out of the path of otherwise inevitable death.

The part of Sylar that seeks recognition still shoulders irritation at the lie but the part of him that knows why he had done it, risked himself for a man who professed disliking him so strongly, silently agrees to let the story stand as told. He is aware that truth can be a weakness and this truth would highlight his Achilles heal. What people do not know cannot be used against him.

Sylar can see Mohinder gearing up for another long defense of the younger Petrelli when their food arrives. It splits a crack in the animosity briefly with Sylar calmly going to work on his plate and Mohinder watching him with no appetite.

“Eat or pretend to,” Sylar says after swallowing a mouthful of pizza. “You know you’ll be hungry later if you--,”

“Fine,” Mohinder mutters and attempts to eat beyond the queasiness in his stomach.

They eat in silence, watching each other, both trying to figure out where they both stand when it comes to the other man’s thoughts.

Watching Mohinder from afar for a year does not compare to being _with_ him. For Sylar having Mohinder actively in his presence sets his neurons off, rapidly firing throughout his body, in a way that has not happened in three years.

On a similar note Sylar’s reappearance out of nothingness throws Mohinder’s brain into first gear and his heart pounding out a familiar message he had learned to ignore at one time.

Mohinder berates himself over getting distracted so easily. Three years of hard work after two years of excruciating fighting should make him much better than this. But when it comes to Sylar, Mohinder does not know if he can trust himself.

Mohinder’s lost thoughts are interrupted.

“O’Rourke – terrible sounding alias by the way – has an interesting gig in Dublin, ” Sylar says.

Blindsided by the realization that Sylar has not only found Peter and visited him, Mohinder tries to ignore the instinctive jump in his stomach, a suggestion of jealousy that Sylar sought out Peter first. Beyond that, Mohinder wonders why Peter did not warn him about Sylar ’s return. His unasked question is answered a second later.

“He never knew I was there. Already living in sin with a waitress who worked for him,” Sylar rudely jokes.

Mohinder does not want to know any of this. The less information he has about the personal lives they have all concocted the better to avoid manipulated implications. As such there are more pressing issues at hand.

“You found him?” Mohinder asks worriedly. “Would you answer my question now? How did you track me down?”

His panic that their covers are now dangerously close to being blown is rising.

Sylar contemplates Mohinder’s concerned expression but only offers a cryptic, “I always know how to find you.”

He knows this is not the time to share how he hunted down and cornered Molly in Canada, or the threat against Matt’s life he prophesized if she did not find Mohinder for him and keep their meeting a secret. He withholds the fact that he looked for Mohinder first, before checking in on Peter, but that he was unsure about how to make contact again, until tonight.

“Should I be flattered or scared?” Mohinder weakly jokes for the first time that night.

“A bit of both if you please,” Sylar smiles as Mohinder cautiously takes down his wall of defense.

A quick reflexive smile appears on Mohinder’s face before he defaults to serious mode.

“So, an editor? What made you choose--,” Sylar tries at mundane conversation in hopes of delaying the more serious discussion that will consume them later.

“Are we really going to make small talk?” Mohinder cuts him off while placing his cutlery down and pushing away his plate with only half of the pizza eaten.

Sylar sighs and looks down at his own empty plate.

“We were never really good at it,” Mohinder continues with a hint of amusement. “Far too sarcastic if I recall.”

Sylar catches Mohinder’s softened gaze.

“It wasn’t always so…offensive,” Sylar says. “When we--,”

“It was still calculated,” Mohinder utters.

“Yes, but it wasn’t all a lie,” Sylar clarifies.

Now it is Mohinder who sighs at what is being hinted at but carefully not said aloud.

This is the beginning of a much deeper conversation that has been a long time coming, but will never see the light of day. Even with Sylar suggesting it, Mohinder cannot follow down this path. It is unconscionable. He will not allow it.

There is no forgiveness for any past actions, and certainly nothing that can be forgotten. It does not matter what Mohinder’s confused feelings tap out in Morse code, just as it does not matter what Sylar’s increasingly unclear intentions are.

The only suggestive acts that Mohinder can openly extend is his not wanting to kill Sylar every time he thinks about him, his acceptance of their two tiered conversations, his genuine feeling of okay that Sylar is still alive. It is never enough for Sylar but he takes it anyway. Anything else, Mohinder keeps locked away.

“Why did you find me?” Mohinder asks again.

Sylar lets a moment pass. Understanding that tonight can only be about business, he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a folded photograph; handing it across the table. About to unfold the picture Mohinder spies the waiter approaching and delays revealing Sylar’s reason for setting tonight in motion.

The waiter gathers up their dishes and asks if they would like dessert or drinks. Sylar brings his deliberating eyes to Mohinder who requests café bombon. A small smile settles on Sylar’s face as he asks for tea.

With the waiter no more than three steps away from the table, Mohinder opens up the photograph. It is one he has seen many times before and his curiousity gives way to confusion. He looks at Sylar who is watching him closely.

“It’s the original members of The Company,” Mohinder states.

When Sylar does not respond Mohinder continues, “We know this already.”

Sylar’s commanding eyes hold Mohinder’s un-illuminated expression.

“Mohinder,” Sylar says in that low thoughtful tone of voice that Mohinder has learned means Sylar is expecting him to understand something much deeper than a superficial façade.

Immediately Mohinder drops his eyes to the photograph again and looks over the group of people frozen in time. For good or bad, individual reasons seem as murky now as they were then according to the snippets of information willingly shared over the years prior to the First Wave and then in its wake, these people had been brought together.

The impact of that time, not as deceptively innocent as the photograph makes it seem, is still being felt in the wayward control it exudes over so many lives. Many lives that at the time were not even a thought.

“Original members of The Company—everyone we’ve accounted for--Angela, Charles, Kaito, Bob, Maury, Adam…--taken at the end of their first year—celebrations,” Mohinder speaks under his breath.

Talking out his thought process is a habit Mohinder had developed during the organization of the First Wave. Listening to him Sylar realizes how much he has missed the idiosyncrasy he once found irritating.

“—the gang—rooftop—Adam looking at—most people posing—looking at— ,”

The abrupt end to Mohinder’s ramble brings a raised eyebrow to Sylar’s face. _He’s got it,_ Sylar thinks, but he waits for Mohinder to confirm first.

“We…oh my…we--,” Mohinder stumbles over his words as the waiter returns with their hot drinks. Again Mohinder waits until they are alone to continue.

He looks dubiously at Sylar who is pouring milk in his tea without breaking their gaze.

“Everyone in the picture—we assumed—are you suggesting--,” Mohinder starts to ask.

“I’m suggesting nothing,” Sylar emphatically replies. “This is fact, Mohinder.”

Looking back at the picture in hand Mohinder says, “None of us thought beyond a self-timer on the camera or a hired photographer, but then this would have been a candid—unless it was made to look like a…”

Sylar reaches across the table and picks up the teaspoon next to Mohinder’s drink. While Mohinder follows his deepening thought process, Sylar stirs Mohinder’s drink, mixing the condensed milk at the bottom of the glass with the dark coffee sitting on top. Swirling them together a chocolate brown emerges. Sylar puts the spoon down and sits back with his tea. Mohinder reaches for his drink, without looking up from the picture, and takes a sip.

Contemplatively he puts down his drink and looks at Sylar with sparkling eyes that are now filled with unabash ed awareness over a just uncovered secret.

“There’s one more original member of The Company,” Mohinder says in awe.

“And it’s a big one,” Sylar confirms.

“The person we don’t see—behind the camera,” continues Mohinder. “Purposely not in the picture. ”

“Exactly,” Sylar says.

Mohinder looks at the picture again before handing it across the table to Sylar. Shaking his head no, Sylar implies that the photograph can now stay with Mohinder. Taking it back Mohinder folds it up and places it in his jacket pocket.

“With Linderman in the picture we assumed this was everyone he had recruited,” Mohinder deliberates.

“It _is _everyone who was recruited,” Sylar spells it out seeing that Mohinder is still not totally getting what this new information means.

Mohinder, drink mid air, stops as the puzzle gains a new clarity he had not anticipated.

“This someone is above Linderman,” he half states half whispers.

“And it’s going to take an army to bring him down,” Sylar professes.

“We don’t have an army.”

“I know, but I have information and your Resistance is stronger now than it was before. We can put up a fight this time.”

Mohinder raises an eye at the use of “we”, a look that Sylar notices and immediately addresses.

“Look, this man encouraged—sanctioned—the use of torture and vile experimentations against me. He may not have done it with his own hands, but it was under his directive,” Sylar explains. “It would be my pleasure to do unto him.”

Mohinder considers these words, wondering if there is no other reason for Sylar’s reemergence. Power is still in numbers and abilities and to turn Sylar down would be an act of cutting off his nose to spite his face.

“Do you know who it is?”

“Massimo Asinni, but I--,” Sylar is cut off by the waiter approaching to ask how everything is. Sylar indicates they are fine but asks for the bill; the gesture to end their dinner surprises Mohinder. He feels the first twinge of regret at their night being called short.

“I don’t know where he is,” Sylar goes on, “and I don’t think he can be found in—traditional ways.”

The veiled hint at Molly catches Mohinder’s attention but in light of the current discussion he does not let it distract his focus.

“How did you find this out?” he asks instead.

Sylar thinks a moment, weighing his words.

“I was taking care of some personal business,” Sylar finally shares, “when I stumbled upon this information.”

“Personal business?”

“Another time.”

The heaviness of muted words rests on their shoulders.

“See, we can talk,” Sylar attempts to lighten the mood. He does not want this night to end on another antagonistic note between them, at least not yet. His mind is already jumping ahead to a leisurely nighttime stroll filled with the sharing of information and the familiar conversation he knows they are capable of, that he has missed, to cap off the evening.

“Yes, when it comes to the more serious stuff,” Mohinder supposes carefully. “It’s our attempts at the mundane that sound stilted or end up with us threatening each other.”

The waiter places their bill at the centre of the table and bids them goodnight.

“We don’t waste our words with each other,” Sylar suggests candidly knowing that the right ones can bypass any obstacles Mohinder keeps throwing at him. He has managed it before.

Mohinder smiles his first real smile of the entire night.

“No, I guess not,” Mohinder agrees.

On the verge of saying something to stretch out this isolated instance of friendliness, Sylar bites his tongue. He does not want to risk tainting it with the inescapable past that looks for any way to sink its claws in and maim beyond recognition.

Instead Sylar reaches for the bill.

“I can pay my half,” Mohinder says, as a sudden uneasiness at how comfortable he is with Sylar begins to bear down on him.

Sylar looks at him amusingly and says, “No, I’m the one who invited you. I’m paying.”

“I’ll pay for my meal,” Mohinder insists and the tone in his voice tells Sylar there will be no further negotiation.

“Fine,” Sylar says dismissively but he continues holding onto the bill while he reaches with his other hand into his pocket for his money.

Mohinder, anxiously feeling the need to make clear the boundaries between them, reaches across the table and swipes the bill out of Sylar’s hand.

Sylar shoots him a glare before clearly stating a cold “fine.”

Sylar is unprepared for the annoyance in his voice at Mohinder’s behaviour. He places his money on the table while his mind races to calm down. As bothered as he is by Mohinder’s constant challenges, he is just as frustrated by his own reaction to it.

With a deep breath he looks up to level an unflinching glare at Mohinder, to remind him whom he is playing this mind trip of game with, and finds Mohinder watching him.

“I’ll be in touch with you about what to do next,” Sylar informs him unemotionally as he gets up from the table, his temper getting the best of him.

Trying to maintain a working distance with Mohinder has always been a problem for Sylar. In theory he is always controlled while holding the upper hand. However in practice he is always checking his balance, never sure what will come next.

Away from Mohinder, Sylar has always been more focused. Yet even then Sylar has allowed his pull towards Mohinder to redirect his steps when the time allowed it. With Mohinder, Sylar has unintentionally allowed their personal binding to govern his emotions.

Sylar feels an urgency to be out of the restaurant and away from Mohinder as fast as possible so that he can collect himself for their next meeting. There is too much at stake to now get lost within.

Mohinder looks taken aback at the tonal change from a few seconds earlier.

“I’ll have to get in touch with Peter,” Mohinder awkwardly says as he gets up from his chair.

“I know,” Sylar says impatiently. “Peter will know how to save the day.”

Mohinder shoots him a perturbed look at the dripping sarcasm.

“Would you give it a rest? Is this about the bill?” Mohinder asks only vaguely aware of his own hand in Sylar’s shift.

Sylar glares at him and thrusts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. With a turn on his heels he swaggers out of the restaurant. Mohinder watches him leave and then follows.

Once outside he sees Sylar’s back as he heads up the stretch of the concrete island that separates the two roads that run along La Rambla. Packed with tourists and locals taking in the warm Spanish night, Mohinder keeps his eyes on Sylar as he moves into the crowd. He has to stop himself from calling Sylar’s name out and moves into a slow jog as Sylar crosses the street and heads into Placa de Catalunya.

Tons of people are milling about, talking, laughing; watching each other while enjoying their relaxing evening.

When he is close enough to not draw any unwanted attention, Mohinder calls out Sylar’s name but gets no reply of acknowledgment.

“Sylar!” Mohinder calls out again and reaches out to grab him by the right arm.

The contact freezes Sylar to the spot and Mohinder nearly collides with him. Sending an irritated look Mohinder’s way he ignores the questioning expression in Mohinder’s eyes.

“Dinner is over if you haven’t realized,” Sylar says firmly. “I told you I’d be in touch with you.”

Mohinder scoffs and releases his grip on Sylar’s arm while looking around the park at all the people going about their lives. He fixes his eyes back on Sylar.

“You have no right—no right—to be angry with me,” Mohinder irately chastises Sylar. “Not after everything. And for you to try to make me feel bad for having—wanting—some life—for caring about people you hate—for not acting the way you want me to, expect me to—is—,”

The sentence hangs in the air. The past that they can never alter, never justify in an attempt to outrun, always explodes in their faces. It is just a matter of time.

“What do you want from me?” Mohinder asks with exhaustion in his voice.

Nothing and everything, Sylar wants to grab him by the throat and yell. He wants to tell Mohinder that he is nothing; that he wishes Mohinder would disappear and never come back. He wants Mohinder out of his head and out of his memories. He wants.

He wants Mohinder to not hate him. He wants Mohinder to miss talking with him when they are apart, to not deny the conversations that have never been just empty words. He wants Mohinder to innately know the things not said out loud. He wants Mohinder to consider him—He wants.

“Nothing,” Sylar responds calmly. “You have nothing that I want. This is only…business. You know what your problem is Mohinder?”

“Please enlighten me,” Mohinder encourages sarcastically with a groan.

“You’re stuck in the past. Always have been. ‘Who I am is who I was’, should be your motto,” Sylar begins.

“We’re all defined by our pasts,” Mohinder reminds him.

“I feel absolutely no regrets for what I’ve done,” Sylar says, mentally excusing his mother’s unintended death from the list. “Every single one deserved it.”

Sylar steps closer to Mohinder and puts his face threateningly in Mohinder’s.

“They _all_ deserved it.”

The implication of Chandra is clear. Mohinder takes in a sharp intake of breath. Sylar refuses to expound on why Chandra’s death will never induce regret in him, beyond Chandra turning his back on him. After all, it was Chandra’s death that brought him Mohinder from halfway around the world.

“The thing is you—The Resistance—needs someone like me by your side if you want to get things done. So save the lecture about remorse and conscience. Go back to your editing job and I’ll contact you when it’s time. Okay, _Julian_?”

The glare at each other until Mohinder begins to turn and walk away. He has only taken two steps when he stops and turns to look at Sylar.

“You do live in the past,” Mohinder tells him. “You harbour such resentment. It’s pathetic really. At least I can admit it—try to admit my own shortcomings, mistakes. You’re drugged by your own illusions of greatness. You’ll always be a manipulative bastard. At least knowing that, I won’t make the mistake of thinking there—If you’ll excuse me I have to drop Ronan a line.”

Sylar watches Mohinder walk away, his irritation subsiding. He smirks as his anger dissipates. The antagonism between them back in its place, Sylar feels more at ease. He knows he will have to be better prepared for their next meeting. He cannot allow Mohinder to get under his skin like this, like every time before.

Mohinder stalks away, disappearing into the crowd. His heart is pounding from the argument and he is tempted to turn back and punch Sylar in his smug face, but he does not alter his course. With distance and time he begins to realize that Sylar’s reappearance has also sparked his mind and desire for the Resistance’ mission to succeed.

Before this evening he had been living in Barcelona. Tonight he feels alive.

But he would never tell Sylar that.   
 


End file.
